“Oh great psychoanalytical babbler save us from the evil infomercial of the multi-use, non-functional, two for the price of one plus shipping demon that haunts us across the never-ending-airwaves.
Yea; thou art the progeny of Edgar Allen Poe and a Nubian snake dancer, defender of that which is bottled last and sold first. Thy promise is the antithesis of the material, desired yet unobtainable."
Reality set in as Hobart stood from his lamentations and looked upon the flickering icon of Bob Barker. The three story tall image stared out beatifically stupid from its wall wide monitor.
His pleading changed nothing, Hobart’s happiness still hinged on getting the right six numbers on one ticket in Saturday night’s lottery. The little book of verse vibrated but he wasn’t going to feed any more dimes into the prayer box, he let the slim volume retract into its holder.
The pain in his knees from all that praying subsided as he contemplated his plight. He knew nothing about the spiritual world and too much about the material one. If you worked you got to eat. If you got lucky, maybe a bottle of muscatel and an hour with one of Bob the Great Host’s assistants. If not, you went without.
Supporting the sponsors was all well and fine if you already had a pile of ducats. Hobart didn’t. He didn’t have squat and the way he went about things, he wasn’t likely to, ever. It wasn’t for lack of desire, Hobart desired everything he could see and most things he’d only heard about. He didn’t mind working either and would take any position offered.
Hobert's problems always started as soon as he got paid. He woold head for the nearest altar and sacrifice all that he had on food, liquor and women. He was a good parishioner and the local Host of the Congregation of Consumers was always glad to see him.
He stepped out of the cathedral into the mass hysteria of the New Year celebration. Twenty Seventy-Six was going to be a hell of a year in Corporate America.
